first of all, MSU WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?!?!?!? You were up 17 points with 6:30 to go in the 4th quarter... and somehow you managed to lose!?!?! I was cheering for you incompetent fuckers the whole way but if your defense can't defend a 17 point deficit for 6 fucking minutes then you deserve every ounce of humiliation you get. for a while there you had me fantasizing about a MSU/Wisonsin Rose Bowl, and then you blew it to kingdom-fucking-come. christ, my old high school could have put up a better defense. go home, and darken not my television set again.
now, if you don't want to read about my whiney fucking feminine insecurities, i suggest you close the page now or go read some comics. i recommend http://www.ucomics.com/nonsequitur/. as for me, hey, it's my blog and i'll cry if i want to.
got an email today. i may be reading between the lines, but i don't think so. it seems that someone for whom i care tremendously is seeing someone else. now, we never had comitted relationship, and now i'm on another continent, so there's no cheating or anything sinister going on here. he's just moved on. i knew it would happen eventually, and in my brain i even wanted it to. we're friends, and i don't want him to compromise his own happiness by clinging to a phantom relationship from months ago. like apparently i am, judging by how bummed out i feel.
i'm upset partly by the glaring obviousness that this individual no longer has any feelings for me, but mostly from the perfect track record that this development perpetuates. as i said earlier, we were never in a committed relationship, and the reason for that is that he never felt as strongly about me as i did about him. him, and every other human for whom i've ever felt a romantic attachment. first there was miller, then came kevin, then several more people, and finally this latest one. never once, in my entire life, has anyone ever been in love with me. ever. i'm almost 26.
so today i'm crying because the huge potential that my beau and i had will now be forever unexplored, and i can add one more name to list of people who didn't/couldn't/wouldn't love me. so now i'm racking my brain (again) with the same old pointless questions, like...
What is it that every woman on the plant has that I am apparently lacking?
Am I really that ugly?
What's wrong with me?
Am I doing something wrong?
Are my expectations to high?
How is it that even the bitchiest, whiniest, ugliest, crassest, dumbest, most shallow Jerry Springer guests manage to get married, and I, a well-educated, thougthful, polite, reasonably attractive woman have never even had a boyfriend who likes me, even a little? Am I even more unappealing than those women? Why?
Clearly, I am at the very bottom of the global female totem pole, below female praying mantises, who manage to find mates despite the inevitable unpleasant side-effects. This whole mind-set is not aided by the daily emails I get from my future sister-in-law about her wedding plans (she wants me to feel included, bless her heart). My future sister-in-law, incidently, is short, fat, and boring. And she managed to shag and bag my brother, a tall, bright, funny guy with a great job who dresses well and cooks even better. WTF? Maybe if I cut my legs off at the knees, gained a hundred pounds, and ceased to converse about anything save the weather and computer technology I could find a man like my bro.
In reading this you are witnessing what is possibly the darkest part of my psyche: the insecure, self-loathing, fatalistic bit of my self-image that normally lurks inocuously in the sediment at the bottom of my brain; but like all predators, it is drawn to weakness, and nothing brings it to the surface faster than the sound of my heart cracking.
you would cry too, if it happened to you.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
dream baby
man, did i have some fucked up dreams last night. the really vivid kind, in full-colour, that stay with you for hours after you wake up. it would take me pages upon pages to describe all the images and sequences of events, but you prbobably don't want to know that much about my subconscious (i certainly don't). i only bring it up because on a couple occassions in my past i've shared dreams with other people or been dreaming of things that were actually happening on the other side of the world (i'll give you an example in a moment so you don't think i'm a total crackpot). on these occassions, the dreams have been particularly clear and lingered for hours or days afterwards.
prime example: when i was in middle and high school, my best friend was a guy named, well, lets call him miller. miller and i had an incredibly close relationship. we finished each others' sentences, we always knew what the other was thinking. we parted on poor terms one new year's eve after we arrived at a party together (i was ass over teakettle in love with miller and had high hopes for the evening) and he left the party with another girl. the bastard. i was bitter for years and didn't speak to him. fast forward to the fall of 2000. it had been 4 years since miller and i had last spoken, and i was in a rainforest in australia, totally cut off from civilization and becoming increasingly depressed over the continued destruction of the planet's wild places.
and i had a dream about miller. i can still tell you every detail of that dream. i can tell you what he was wearing, how he smelled, the sound of his breathing. as i was writing about the dream in my diary, i realized for the first time that i was no longer angry at miller. the grudge i had been carrying for years had dissipated, and more than anything i wanted to find him and talk to him and to once again be a part of his life. i determined to track him down the moment i got home in december.
i arrived back in michigan exhaused, homesick, and freezing cold (going from a tropical summer to a michigan winter is not fun, particularly without the aclimatizing autumn in between). I didn't know where miller was living, but his mother still lived in town, so i rang her up. she remembered me and was happy to give me miller's phone number. when i called him he recognized my voice and asked me if i'd gotten the email. "what email?" i asked. "I didn't have internet access in the rainforest." he said he'd sent me an email a little over a month ago saying that he wanted to get in touch with me and catch up on old times.
i went up to the computer and checked my email, scrolling back to november. sure enough, there was an email from miller. i looked at the date. i ran for my diary. compensating for the time change and the international date line, he sent that email the exact same night i had the dream. you will never convince me in a thousand years that that was a coincidence.
back to last night and my fucked up dreams. the man in my dream (not the man of my dreams) was in his early to mid-thirties, tall, paunchy through the middle, had brown, curly hair, and looked vaguely like michael moore. i have never seen this man before in my life, and i'm forced to wonder if he was conjured up by my fucked up subconscious, or if (and now i'm really going to sound potty) he came from somewhere else. i'm tempted for curiosity's sake to put out a call for anyone meeting this description who knows me to get in touch with me, but i really don't want every web-surfing loser who looks like michael moore stalking me online. ergo, if you are a man of this description, and you know me, or you think you know me, or you are contemplating claiming that you know me, go away. and stay the fuck out of my dreams.
and take your iguana with you.
prime example: when i was in middle and high school, my best friend was a guy named, well, lets call him miller. miller and i had an incredibly close relationship. we finished each others' sentences, we always knew what the other was thinking. we parted on poor terms one new year's eve after we arrived at a party together (i was ass over teakettle in love with miller and had high hopes for the evening) and he left the party with another girl. the bastard. i was bitter for years and didn't speak to him. fast forward to the fall of 2000. it had been 4 years since miller and i had last spoken, and i was in a rainforest in australia, totally cut off from civilization and becoming increasingly depressed over the continued destruction of the planet's wild places.
and i had a dream about miller. i can still tell you every detail of that dream. i can tell you what he was wearing, how he smelled, the sound of his breathing. as i was writing about the dream in my diary, i realized for the first time that i was no longer angry at miller. the grudge i had been carrying for years had dissipated, and more than anything i wanted to find him and talk to him and to once again be a part of his life. i determined to track him down the moment i got home in december.
i arrived back in michigan exhaused, homesick, and freezing cold (going from a tropical summer to a michigan winter is not fun, particularly without the aclimatizing autumn in between). I didn't know where miller was living, but his mother still lived in town, so i rang her up. she remembered me and was happy to give me miller's phone number. when i called him he recognized my voice and asked me if i'd gotten the email. "what email?" i asked. "I didn't have internet access in the rainforest." he said he'd sent me an email a little over a month ago saying that he wanted to get in touch with me and catch up on old times.
i went up to the computer and checked my email, scrolling back to november. sure enough, there was an email from miller. i looked at the date. i ran for my diary. compensating for the time change and the international date line, he sent that email the exact same night i had the dream. you will never convince me in a thousand years that that was a coincidence.
back to last night and my fucked up dreams. the man in my dream (not the man of my dreams) was in his early to mid-thirties, tall, paunchy through the middle, had brown, curly hair, and looked vaguely like michael moore. i have never seen this man before in my life, and i'm forced to wonder if he was conjured up by my fucked up subconscious, or if (and now i'm really going to sound potty) he came from somewhere else. i'm tempted for curiosity's sake to put out a call for anyone meeting this description who knows me to get in touch with me, but i really don't want every web-surfing loser who looks like michael moore stalking me online. ergo, if you are a man of this description, and you know me, or you think you know me, or you are contemplating claiming that you know me, go away. and stay the fuck out of my dreams.
and take your iguana with you.
Monday, October 25, 2004
we didn't win because we played well...
we won because the other team sucked goats. big hairy ones. monkeys too. i went to watch my old high school last thursday evening play a football game (that's american football, with all its start-stop-start-stop action, over-sized safety pads and homoerotic, bum-slapping fun) against an old rival, detroit catholic central.
it was a fairly impromptu game, announced only a week prior. it wasn't a part of the regular season play; just an old-fashioned challenge issued by our coach to dcc and they came to meet it, the poor bastards. the evening was perfect: brisk, but not cold, the leaves were changing colors, and the stars were out in multitudes (not that you could see them above the stadium lights). I showed up early to laugh at my old marching band stumble around the field during the pregame show and was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the marching, accuracy of the formations (the 5-pointed star was bang on, and that's a particulary difficult one), and the reasonably well-blended sound. The trombones need to get their act together, but that's S.O.P. for the boners (i know, having been a high-school boner myself for 2 years).
then the kickoff. now, i know that lumen christi (yep, that's my school: "light of christ" in the most pretentious languge ever uttered. need i say more?) is a football juggernaut. we've got enough state championship banners to carpet the hallways, but dcc should have been better competition. back in the day they had a spectacular team, and even now their first string is a bunch of 6'4", 250 lb. black kids from da hood. against a bunch of pampered mammas' boys from the burbs there really shouldn't have been much of a contest. sigh.
given how badly they played, it's mildly embarassing that we didn't beat them by more than 25 points. i wasn't paying attention to the lineup, but i really hope that the frosh and 3rd string got a go, cause this was their night to shine. i'll spare you the play-by-play, but i will give you a shining example of the deterioration of the dcc football program: first quarter, 6th down, dcc in posession. lc attempts a sack, the dcc quarterback unloads the ball in time, the pass is complete and their receiver breaks free and makes a 30 yard sprint. he's wide open, there isn't another player near him. he's out in no-man's-land, and there's nothing between him, the end-zone, and the first touchdown of the game. except his own feet. 2 yards from the zone he trips on NOTHING, falls over his own feet and lands flat on his face. 2 yards from the touchdown!!! poor slob won't live that one down for the rest of his sorry, non-football playing life. (i hope the kid's parents got it on video, because at least then they can send it in to america's funniest home videos and take a shot at the $10,000 prize.) our defense pushed it back after that, and we scored the first touchdown with 1 minute to go in the first quarter. at one point they did manage to get a 3-point field goal, but those were the only 3 points they got the entire game. when i left with 6 minutes to go in the 4th quarter lumen was up 28 to 3. at one point in the game i actually saw the ball bounce off the wide-receiver's helmet when he failed to catch the pass. sad, sad, sad.
so that was basically the whole game. they would fumble something, we would recover it, score, and play the fight song. wash, rinse, repeat. but it was a nice evening. i never got to watch the games in high school because i was always too busy with my music or trying to keep my fingers from freezing off. so thursday night i sat halfway up on the 50-yard line with my LC sweatshirt and my hot chocolate and screamed myself hoarse before the half, chatted with old friends and teachers, met the new band-parents, waved at j.w., and wallowed in what really is a great american tradition.
it was a fairly impromptu game, announced only a week prior. it wasn't a part of the regular season play; just an old-fashioned challenge issued by our coach to dcc and they came to meet it, the poor bastards. the evening was perfect: brisk, but not cold, the leaves were changing colors, and the stars were out in multitudes (not that you could see them above the stadium lights). I showed up early to laugh at my old marching band stumble around the field during the pregame show and was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the marching, accuracy of the formations (the 5-pointed star was bang on, and that's a particulary difficult one), and the reasonably well-blended sound. The trombones need to get their act together, but that's S.O.P. for the boners (i know, having been a high-school boner myself for 2 years).
then the kickoff. now, i know that lumen christi (yep, that's my school: "light of christ" in the most pretentious languge ever uttered. need i say more?) is a football juggernaut. we've got enough state championship banners to carpet the hallways, but dcc should have been better competition. back in the day they had a spectacular team, and even now their first string is a bunch of 6'4", 250 lb. black kids from da hood. against a bunch of pampered mammas' boys from the burbs there really shouldn't have been much of a contest. sigh.
given how badly they played, it's mildly embarassing that we didn't beat them by more than 25 points. i wasn't paying attention to the lineup, but i really hope that the frosh and 3rd string got a go, cause this was their night to shine. i'll spare you the play-by-play, but i will give you a shining example of the deterioration of the dcc football program: first quarter, 6th down, dcc in posession. lc attempts a sack, the dcc quarterback unloads the ball in time, the pass is complete and their receiver breaks free and makes a 30 yard sprint. he's wide open, there isn't another player near him. he's out in no-man's-land, and there's nothing between him, the end-zone, and the first touchdown of the game. except his own feet. 2 yards from the zone he trips on NOTHING, falls over his own feet and lands flat on his face. 2 yards from the touchdown!!! poor slob won't live that one down for the rest of his sorry, non-football playing life. (i hope the kid's parents got it on video, because at least then they can send it in to america's funniest home videos and take a shot at the $10,000 prize.) our defense pushed it back after that, and we scored the first touchdown with 1 minute to go in the first quarter. at one point they did manage to get a 3-point field goal, but those were the only 3 points they got the entire game. when i left with 6 minutes to go in the 4th quarter lumen was up 28 to 3. at one point in the game i actually saw the ball bounce off the wide-receiver's helmet when he failed to catch the pass. sad, sad, sad.
so that was basically the whole game. they would fumble something, we would recover it, score, and play the fight song. wash, rinse, repeat. but it was a nice evening. i never got to watch the games in high school because i was always too busy with my music or trying to keep my fingers from freezing off. so thursday night i sat halfway up on the 50-yard line with my LC sweatshirt and my hot chocolate and screamed myself hoarse before the half, chatted with old friends and teachers, met the new band-parents, waved at j.w., and wallowed in what really is a great american tradition.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
entertaining ducks
Thanks to HereBe and OneBadWay, last night was one of the more entertaining sleepless nights i've had. I don't know why i couldn't sleep; just kept waking up for 30 mins at a stretch, and rather than contemplate the fate of the aged, ailing feline rolled up at the foot of the bed, i forced myself to think of something funny. And when you need a good laugh, there's nothing like pondering the fucked up existence of HereBeMonsters for a few yuks, which got me to thinking about the duck game. Here then, is some of my mental excrement from last night:
Music: The Sounds of Ducks; Parsely, Sage, Rosemary and Duck; I am a Duck, I am and Island; The Only Living Duck in New York; Duck Over Troubled Water; Cracklin' Duck; Blowin' in the Duck; Duck Gas; I Want to Hold Your Duck; All you Need is Ducks; Ducks Make the World Go Around; Duck with the Fringe on Top (or Surry with the Duck on Top); Ducks Are Busting out All Over; A Mighty Fortress is Our Duck.
Film: Duck On the River Kwai; A Raisin in the Duck; A Duck in Winter; Ducks of Arabia;(substituting 'moon' yielded several possibilities, including...) Paper Duck; Duck Over Parador; and my favourite, Duck Struck; then there's A Duck for All Seasons; Four Ducks of the Apocolypse; A Duck Runs Through It; The Maltese Duck; To Kill A Duck; The Duck Brief; Zorro, the Gay Duck; Much Ado About Ducks; Close Encounters of the Third Duck; A Man and a Duck; An Officer and a Duck; A Time to Duck; and... (wait for it...) 12 Angry Ducks! (I find that last one creates an espcially funny mental picture.)
Clearly I was awake for a significant portion of the night. There were more which I've now forgotten, but I'm sure they'll come back to me in my next insomnia-infested evening. Thanks, guys, for keeping me entertained.
Music: The Sounds of Ducks; Parsely, Sage, Rosemary and Duck; I am a Duck, I am and Island; The Only Living Duck in New York; Duck Over Troubled Water; Cracklin' Duck; Blowin' in the Duck; Duck Gas; I Want to Hold Your Duck; All you Need is Ducks; Ducks Make the World Go Around; Duck with the Fringe on Top (or Surry with the Duck on Top); Ducks Are Busting out All Over; A Mighty Fortress is Our Duck.
Film: Duck On the River Kwai; A Raisin in the Duck; A Duck in Winter; Ducks of Arabia;(substituting 'moon' yielded several possibilities, including...) Paper Duck; Duck Over Parador; and my favourite, Duck Struck; then there's A Duck for All Seasons; Four Ducks of the Apocolypse; A Duck Runs Through It; The Maltese Duck; To Kill A Duck; The Duck Brief; Zorro, the Gay Duck; Much Ado About Ducks; Close Encounters of the Third Duck; A Man and a Duck; An Officer and a Duck; A Time to Duck; and... (wait for it...) 12 Angry Ducks! (I find that last one creates an espcially funny mental picture.)
Clearly I was awake for a significant portion of the night. There were more which I've now forgotten, but I'm sure they'll come back to me in my next insomnia-infested evening. Thanks, guys, for keeping me entertained.
cat mystery solved. maybe.
when i got home from europe on the 4th of october, i came home to a slightly dishevelled, slightly skinny, lonely, grouchy, but basically OK (16 year-old) cat. that changed on saturday night when she ceased to be voluntarily mobile and became a frightened, twitchy, spasmodic, seizure-ridden cat. three days, two vet-visits and $250 dollars later (thanks, mom) there is hope that soon she will become a slightly dishevelled, slightly less skinny, mobile, grouchy cat.
The marvelous Dr. Gorzcyka could find no evidence upon examination of neuro-muscular problems, hip displaysia, blood clots, or any other problem that would cause her to spasm and twitch and walk funny. They kept her overnight to run a battery of blood tests and take x-rays, and discovered that she's 1, massively hyper-thyroid, 2, has a seriously inflamed liver, and 3, has calcified bone spurs on most of her lower vertebrae, the presumed source of the pain which is causing her mobility problems.
my father's reaction? "$250 dollars for a 16 year-old cat?!?!? why didn't you just put her to sleep?!?!" never mind the hundreds and hundreds of dollars that have been spent on the dog's health since she was diagnosed with cushing's disease at the tender age of 11. he never complains about that. mumph. so, now that the cat's on a barrage of medication to rival the dog's, we'll wait and see how well she responds, if at all. but even the marvelous dr. gorczyka, for all his veterinary genius, can't prevent the inevitable. they've pretty much assured me that the next time i come home, there won't even be a dishevelled, skinny, cat to greet me.
The marvelous Dr. Gorzcyka could find no evidence upon examination of neuro-muscular problems, hip displaysia, blood clots, or any other problem that would cause her to spasm and twitch and walk funny. They kept her overnight to run a battery of blood tests and take x-rays, and discovered that she's 1, massively hyper-thyroid, 2, has a seriously inflamed liver, and 3, has calcified bone spurs on most of her lower vertebrae, the presumed source of the pain which is causing her mobility problems.
my father's reaction? "$250 dollars for a 16 year-old cat?!?!? why didn't you just put her to sleep?!?!" never mind the hundreds and hundreds of dollars that have been spent on the dog's health since she was diagnosed with cushing's disease at the tender age of 11. he never complains about that. mumph. so, now that the cat's on a barrage of medication to rival the dog's, we'll wait and see how well she responds, if at all. but even the marvelous dr. gorczyka, for all his veterinary genius, can't prevent the inevitable. they've pretty much assured me that the next time i come home, there won't even be a dishevelled, skinny, cat to greet me.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
secrets to a happy marraige, part 4
"Sovereign ingredient for a happy marraige: Pay cash or do without. Interst charges not only eat up a household budget; awareness of debt eats up domestic felicity.
Another ingredient for a happy marraige: Budget the luxuries first.
Still another: See to it that she has her own desk--then keep your hands off it!
And another: in a family argument, if it turns out you are right--apologize at once!!!"
Always tell her she is beautiful, especially if she is not. A man should not insist on physical beauty in a woman who builds up his morale. After a while he realizes that she is beautiful--he just hadn't noticed it at first.
Yield to temptation; it may not pass your way again.
The more you love, the more you can love--and the more intensely you love.
A competent and self-confident person is incapable of jealousy in anything. Jealousy is invariable a symptom of neurotic insecurity.
Rub her feet.
A true lady takes off her dignity with her clothes and does her whorish best. At other times she can be as modest and dignifies as her persona requires."
And finally, "If the universe has any purpose more important than topping a woman you love and making a baby with her hearty help, I've never heard of it."
The preceeding are all excerpts from "The notebooks of Lazarus Long," by Robert A. Heinlein. Laz also shares with us his wisdom pertaining to religion (for fools only), politics (for liars), and the future of the human race (we ain't got one).
Another ingredient for a happy marraige: Budget the luxuries first.
Still another: See to it that she has her own desk--then keep your hands off it!
And another: in a family argument, if it turns out you are right--apologize at once!!!"
Always tell her she is beautiful, especially if she is not. A man should not insist on physical beauty in a woman who builds up his morale. After a while he realizes that she is beautiful--he just hadn't noticed it at first.
Yield to temptation; it may not pass your way again.
The more you love, the more you can love--and the more intensely you love.
A competent and self-confident person is incapable of jealousy in anything. Jealousy is invariable a symptom of neurotic insecurity.
Rub her feet.
A true lady takes off her dignity with her clothes and does her whorish best. At other times she can be as modest and dignifies as her persona requires."
And finally, "If the universe has any purpose more important than topping a woman you love and making a baby with her hearty help, I've never heard of it."
The preceeding are all excerpts from "The notebooks of Lazarus Long," by Robert A. Heinlein. Laz also shares with us his wisdom pertaining to religion (for fools only), politics (for liars), and the future of the human race (we ain't got one).
passing milestones
Before i begin detailing the milestone i passed yesterday (and passing milestones, while occassionally depressing, is far more pleasant than passing kidney stones), i would like to thank the one person who responded to my desperate plea for feline help: Jeanne, you're a star. The rest of you insensitive, cat-loving nobheads can get bent.
Yesterday, i walked into the classroom and took my place behind the podium for the first time. Oddly, i wasn't nervous or intimidated. I was teaching 8th grade general science while Mrs. Ramker was at a conference. The kids are studying the basics of atomic structure and molecular bonding simultaneously with geology, minerals, and crystal-formation. The end goal is to get them to understand how different-shaped molecules form different crystalline structures, and be able to surmise the molecular structure of a crystal just by looking at it's macroscpic shape. How cool is that? I didn't get to study any of that stuff til i was a junior in high school!
Anyway, the classes were fun, and I didn't have any difficulty maintaing order. There were a few precoscious (sal, don't even bother correcting my spelling) kids and brown-nosers, but no real trouble-makers. One kid asked me a bunch of questions about me (degree, career, etc...) but since they were all relevant to my qualification to teach the class, I answered them. Then he said, "Well, we're awfully glad to have you."
"Thank you, Mr. Matyniak," I replied. "It's always nice to be sucked-up to." The class sniggered and he shut up. Miss Matthews, 1; snotty student, 0!
The highlight of the day was eating lunch in the teachers' lounge. The teachers' lounge is one of those mysterious bits of school. As a student, you never see the inside of it. What goes on in there? What do they talk about? Do they take their masks off? On a conscious level you know perfectly well that it's just a room where teachers eat their sandwiches, drink their diet coke, and complain about their cars breaking down and their mothers-in-law phoning every night, but the unknown has always held sway over the human child's imagination, and a part of you can't help believing that the door to the teachers' loungs is the portal to another dimension.
And in a way, it is. It's the dimension where teachers don't have watch what they say or keep themselves in check. It's the Normal Dimension, where teachers-turned-people eat microwaveable lunches and swap funny stories of things students said in the morning classes. I started an anecdote of a kid who came up to me in the hallway after homeroom, held out his hand to me, and said, "Miss Matthews--I don't believe we've been formally introduced. My name is..."
"Seamus Connelly!" rang in six teachers simultaneously, and everyone chuckeld, because everyone knows that Seamus Connelly is a charmer. The coolest part was that many of these teachers were my teachers, 12 years ago or more. And here I was, enjoying their company, completely accepted as a peer. I hope they call me back to sub again soon, becaue I can still learn a lot from them. Maybe not about the states and capitals or how to solve a two variable equation, but about teaching, managing a large classroom, inspiring cooperation and hard work, and life in general. And since I turned out so brilliantly, i can't imagine a better place to learn than from the people who helped get me where I am today: 25 years old, living with my parents, and working sporadically. God bless Jackson Catholic Middle School.
Yesterday, i walked into the classroom and took my place behind the podium for the first time. Oddly, i wasn't nervous or intimidated. I was teaching 8th grade general science while Mrs. Ramker was at a conference. The kids are studying the basics of atomic structure and molecular bonding simultaneously with geology, minerals, and crystal-formation. The end goal is to get them to understand how different-shaped molecules form different crystalline structures, and be able to surmise the molecular structure of a crystal just by looking at it's macroscpic shape. How cool is that? I didn't get to study any of that stuff til i was a junior in high school!
Anyway, the classes were fun, and I didn't have any difficulty maintaing order. There were a few precoscious (sal, don't even bother correcting my spelling) kids and brown-nosers, but no real trouble-makers. One kid asked me a bunch of questions about me (degree, career, etc...) but since they were all relevant to my qualification to teach the class, I answered them. Then he said, "Well, we're awfully glad to have you."
"Thank you, Mr. Matyniak," I replied. "It's always nice to be sucked-up to." The class sniggered and he shut up. Miss Matthews, 1; snotty student, 0!
The highlight of the day was eating lunch in the teachers' lounge. The teachers' lounge is one of those mysterious bits of school. As a student, you never see the inside of it. What goes on in there? What do they talk about? Do they take their masks off? On a conscious level you know perfectly well that it's just a room where teachers eat their sandwiches, drink their diet coke, and complain about their cars breaking down and their mothers-in-law phoning every night, but the unknown has always held sway over the human child's imagination, and a part of you can't help believing that the door to the teachers' loungs is the portal to another dimension.
And in a way, it is. It's the dimension where teachers don't have watch what they say or keep themselves in check. It's the Normal Dimension, where teachers-turned-people eat microwaveable lunches and swap funny stories of things students said in the morning classes. I started an anecdote of a kid who came up to me in the hallway after homeroom, held out his hand to me, and said, "Miss Matthews--I don't believe we've been formally introduced. My name is..."
"Seamus Connelly!" rang in six teachers simultaneously, and everyone chuckeld, because everyone knows that Seamus Connelly is a charmer. The coolest part was that many of these teachers were my teachers, 12 years ago or more. And here I was, enjoying their company, completely accepted as a peer. I hope they call me back to sub again soon, becaue I can still learn a lot from them. Maybe not about the states and capitals or how to solve a two variable equation, but about teaching, managing a large classroom, inspiring cooperation and hard work, and life in general. And since I turned out so brilliantly, i can't imagine a better place to learn than from the people who helped get me where I am today: 25 years old, living with my parents, and working sporadically. God bless Jackson Catholic Middle School.
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Calling all cat owners...
At 11 o'clock last night my 16 year-old cat suddenly began displaying some very alarming symptoms. Of what, I do not know. That's where you come in. If you have ever heard of a cat with problems similar to those I am about to describe, please tell me. My vet had no clue.
When I found her last night, her tail was smacking about uncontrollably, like a fish smacking about on the deck of a boat. The muscles in her rear legs and hips were twitching and spasming, and she could not walk straight as a result. She got angry with her tail for not sitting still, scratched at it with front claws, and then bolted from the room, her lower spine jerking from side to side as she struggled to run. When I finally found her hiding from herself under a chair in the living room, she was calmer and sitting down, but I could see that her hips and tail were still in spasms.
I described all this to my vet, having woken the poor man up at 11:30 on a Saturday night, who has thus far proven himself an extremely capable doctor (indeed, I wish my own doctor was as patient, thorough, and thoughtful as my vet), but he said he had never hear of symptoms like that before in the whole of his career and was at a total loss for advice.
This morining Noelle seems better. Her muscles are still, but I havn't seen her move yet, so I don't know if she's still having locomotion problems. She's curled up on the floor of my room in a pile of dirty clothes (what a cutie!).
So please, if you have ever heard of a cat with similar problems, please leave me a comment or email me directly at (deleted). I would very much like to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible, because I find it difficult to believe that these symptoms were a fluke occurance and will not flare up again. I'm sure it's only a matter of time, and I don't want to spend another night like last night. I've had this cat more than half my life--I can barely remember the time before we got her (that's a cute story for another blog). Any insight you can offer would be very welcome. Thank you.
When I found her last night, her tail was smacking about uncontrollably, like a fish smacking about on the deck of a boat. The muscles in her rear legs and hips were twitching and spasming, and she could not walk straight as a result. She got angry with her tail for not sitting still, scratched at it with front claws, and then bolted from the room, her lower spine jerking from side to side as she struggled to run. When I finally found her hiding from herself under a chair in the living room, she was calmer and sitting down, but I could see that her hips and tail were still in spasms.
I described all this to my vet, having woken the poor man up at 11:30 on a Saturday night, who has thus far proven himself an extremely capable doctor (indeed, I wish my own doctor was as patient, thorough, and thoughtful as my vet), but he said he had never hear of symptoms like that before in the whole of his career and was at a total loss for advice.
This morining Noelle seems better. Her muscles are still, but I havn't seen her move yet, so I don't know if she's still having locomotion problems. She's curled up on the floor of my room in a pile of dirty clothes (what a cutie!).
So please, if you have ever heard of a cat with similar problems, please leave me a comment or email me directly at (deleted). I would very much like to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible, because I find it difficult to believe that these symptoms were a fluke occurance and will not flare up again. I'm sure it's only a matter of time, and I don't want to spend another night like last night. I've had this cat more than half my life--I can barely remember the time before we got her (that's a cute story for another blog). Any insight you can offer would be very welcome. Thank you.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Secrets to a happy marraige, part 3
"Keep your mouth shut and your checkbook open."
-Father of the bride (an actual father of an actual bride; not the movie)
-Father of the bride (an actual father of an actual bride; not the movie)
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
shameless plagerism
ok, maybe not plagerism exaclty. i'm going to tell you exactly where i got this: from the Tuesday, October 12, 2004 issue of the Jackson Citizen Patriot, my local paper (also known as the Cit Pat or the Shit Pat, depending upon your political orientation). It is an article titled "Literally taking a phrase a bit too far," written by Brad Flory. I'm copying it in its entirety here for three reasons. 1, this particular article does not appear in the on-line version of the paper; 2, it is worth reading, both for its eloquent expression of a shared pet-peeve and its entertainment value; and 3, i am bored.
Literally taking a phrase too far, by Brad Flory
Being the son of an English teacher, I am burdened with strange pet peeves. One is the word "literally." Television new broadcasters almost always use "literally" incorrectly.
"A mid-Michigan man literally explodes with rage," they say. "We'll have the story at 11."
No, the man did not literally explode with rage, not unless he is a suicide bomber. "Literally" means something really happened exactly as the words describe. It is not merely a figure of speech.
Let me illustratewitha story of intense personal stupidity. (me talking again. you can see why i wanted to share this with my global readership. I always find stories of intense personal stupidity extremely entertaining. sadly, there is no shortage of them these days. back to the article...)
A couple years ago, the state put new campfire rings in all its campgrounds. They built thick, reinforced concrete rings that begin about a foot underground. Dirt inside the rings (damnit, SOIL inside the rings. Dirt's the stuff behind your ears. So sayeth BIll Niering.) is excavated below ground level and the concrete rises maybe 8 inches above the surface. No one would confuse it with natural beauty.
Last weekend, I spent two evenings huddled around one of those ugly concrete pits for warmth on the Flory famliy's annual fall camping trip. Autumn, in theory, is a wonderful time for camping. Crowds are small and trees are colorful. In practice, it can be agony.
Each year in October, my family camps at the very tip of the Leelanau Peninsula, spending a weekend pretending not to be miserable. Beautiful as it is, the Leelanau Peninsula can be cold and even snowy in October. When the weather is not cold, it isusually hideously windy. A man with Florida plates told me the breeze off the lake Saturday reminded him of home.
Anyway, on to my stupidity.
Before dawn on Sunday, my son and I awoke at our campsite and took a cold, windy walk to the beach to gaze at the stars.
"We don't have stars like this at home," I said. This sounds dumb, but it's true. Stars, planets and galaxies are remarkable bright when you find a spot without artificial light.
When we returned to our campsite, I boiled a kettle of water to make hot chocolate for the boy. This is where I turned more stupid than usual.
Carrying the kettle in the dark to the picnic table, my feet suddenly came out from under me. I tripped hard. Bracing for the fall, my right knee went past the ground. How could this be? My knee hit the bottom of the fire pit. My thigh slammed intot he reinforced concrete, sort of breaking my fall and, almost, my leg. Boiling water flew from the kettle, some landing on me.
Nursing bumps, burises and burns, I remembered a crude phrase. Word experts trace its origins back to the 1890s.
I literally went ass over teakettle.
See? Even for TV types, this should clear up confusion ver proper use of the word "literally."
I have more pet peeves, but I am too sore to illustrate them.
Ah, Brad Flory: nature-lover, klutz, and grammatical stickler. A man after my own heart. Too bad he's married.
Literally taking a phrase too far, by Brad Flory
Being the son of an English teacher, I am burdened with strange pet peeves. One is the word "literally." Television new broadcasters almost always use "literally" incorrectly.
"A mid-Michigan man literally explodes with rage," they say. "We'll have the story at 11."
No, the man did not literally explode with rage, not unless he is a suicide bomber. "Literally" means something really happened exactly as the words describe. It is not merely a figure of speech.
Let me illustratewitha story of intense personal stupidity. (me talking again. you can see why i wanted to share this with my global readership. I always find stories of intense personal stupidity extremely entertaining. sadly, there is no shortage of them these days. back to the article...)
A couple years ago, the state put new campfire rings in all its campgrounds. They built thick, reinforced concrete rings that begin about a foot underground. Dirt inside the rings (damnit, SOIL inside the rings. Dirt's the stuff behind your ears. So sayeth BIll Niering.) is excavated below ground level and the concrete rises maybe 8 inches above the surface. No one would confuse it with natural beauty.
Last weekend, I spent two evenings huddled around one of those ugly concrete pits for warmth on the Flory famliy's annual fall camping trip. Autumn, in theory, is a wonderful time for camping. Crowds are small and trees are colorful. In practice, it can be agony.
Each year in October, my family camps at the very tip of the Leelanau Peninsula, spending a weekend pretending not to be miserable. Beautiful as it is, the Leelanau Peninsula can be cold and even snowy in October. When the weather is not cold, it isusually hideously windy. A man with Florida plates told me the breeze off the lake Saturday reminded him of home.
Anyway, on to my stupidity.
Before dawn on Sunday, my son and I awoke at our campsite and took a cold, windy walk to the beach to gaze at the stars.
"We don't have stars like this at home," I said. This sounds dumb, but it's true. Stars, planets and galaxies are remarkable bright when you find a spot without artificial light.
When we returned to our campsite, I boiled a kettle of water to make hot chocolate for the boy. This is where I turned more stupid than usual.
Carrying the kettle in the dark to the picnic table, my feet suddenly came out from under me. I tripped hard. Bracing for the fall, my right knee went past the ground. How could this be? My knee hit the bottom of the fire pit. My thigh slammed intot he reinforced concrete, sort of breaking my fall and, almost, my leg. Boiling water flew from the kettle, some landing on me.
Nursing bumps, burises and burns, I remembered a crude phrase. Word experts trace its origins back to the 1890s.
I literally went ass over teakettle.
See? Even for TV types, this should clear up confusion ver proper use of the word "literally."
I have more pet peeves, but I am too sore to illustrate them.
Ah, Brad Flory: nature-lover, klutz, and grammatical stickler. A man after my own heart. Too bad he's married.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Secrects to a happy marraige, part 2
true story: my parents were at the wedding my big brother's life-long friend when the mother of the groom asked my father (who has been blissfully wed for 32 years), "what is the secret to a happy marraige?" my father replied (my mother was no where in sight), "lots of red wine."
a short time later my mother appeared. The mother of the goom asked her (curious about how the wife of red wine-lover would respond), "what is the secret to a happy marraige?" I swear to god, she never heard my father's previous reply to the same question. Her answer? "Red wine. Lots of red wine."
There you go, ladies and alcoholics. Drink enough vin rouge and you will soon view your spouse through rose' colored glasses. 32 years of practice can't be wrong.
a short time later my mother appeared. The mother of the goom asked her (curious about how the wife of red wine-lover would respond), "what is the secret to a happy marraige?" I swear to god, she never heard my father's previous reply to the same question. Her answer? "Red wine. Lots of red wine."
There you go, ladies and alcoholics. Drink enough vin rouge and you will soon view your spouse through rose' colored glasses. 32 years of practice can't be wrong.
Monday, October 11, 2004
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
So i was out with my mom this morning walking my dog through the park and taking some photos of the stunningly beautiful autumn vistas. I mused that the only thing I don't like about the camera is the time it takes to warm it up and turn it on, and though my old point-and-shoot is considerably less sophisticated, it's handy because you can pick it and push a button and it goes off.
My mother's reply to all this was (and here's where it gets scary), "your digital must be a female camera, if it takes forever to turn it on. Obviously, point-and-shoots are male; less sophisticated and always ready to go."
And people wonder where I get it.
My mother's reply to all this was (and here's where it gets scary), "your digital must be a female camera, if it takes forever to turn it on. Obviously, point-and-shoots are male; less sophisticated and always ready to go."
And people wonder where I get it.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Secrets to a happy marraige, part 1
Said a crochety old crank of a professor (who had been happily married for over 50 years), "the secret to a happy marraige is for both parties to believe that they are more fortunate to have the other person than the other person is to have them. It won't do much for your self-esteem, but it will do wonders for your relationship." Too right, Jerry, too right.
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Presidents, golf, and evolution
The game of golf is an evolutionary inevitablitiy, invented by a woman. It has a very clear evolutionary function: to keep men from getting under foot. Ask any wife whose husband has retired if she likes having him around an extra 40 hours a week, and she will no doubt exclaim that while she loves her husband dearly, he gets in the way more often than the 2-year-old twin grandchilden, and she is perpetually having to invent little jobs and games and errands to keep him occupied and out from under foot. Golf is one such game.
This goes back to the days of Neanderthals. When an old Neanderthal grandpa (let's call him 'Ugh') got too slow to keep up with the group hunting mastadons and turned into a safety liability (proto-lawyers and insurance salesmen who had recently appeared on the neolithic scene were already displaying disturbingly successful adaptations), the hunting party left him behind in the cave to annoy the crap out of his but-ugly yet extremely capable wife, Mumph.
Ugh: what's this?
Mumph: put that down, you'll break it.
(Ugh picks up something else, fiddles with it for a moment)
Mumph: Leave those tyranosaurus bones where they are; i put them there for a reason.
(Ugh wanders over to another part of the cave)
Mumph: you kicked up a corner of the bear rug; fix it before i trip and kill myself on it.
(Ugh bends over to fix the rug and notices something)
Ugh: hey! there's a giant bug with a bazillion legs hiding under the rug! Cool! (begins poking centipede with stick)
Mumph: That's it! Out with you! Out! (thinking quickly) Here, if you take these two sticks and rub them together for a really long time, something neat will happen. I promise. (snickers to herself)
Ugh: Really? what?
Mumph: uh, it's a surprise. (smirks)
(two hours later)
Ugh: Mumph! Mumph! look! I invented fire! Holy shit, i'm smart!
Mumph: (rolling eyes) Here, you want to be useful? Take these pelts down to the river and bang them against the wet rocks until they're clean.
Ugh: (crestfallen) ok, sure.
(returns)
Ugh: here you go.
Mumph: oh, for fuck's sake. look at them! they're ruined! Don't you know you can't bang a white pelt on a red rock? And this won't even fit the baby now!
Ugh: you just told me to bang them against the rocks. you didn't say which rocks!
Mumph: I've got an idea. why don't you get Blech and a couple sticks and see how many swings it takes you to hit a rock over the cliff? He's got terrible aim, couldn't hit the broad side of a brontosaurus from 10 feet away. That should keep you busy for a while.
Ladies and gentleman: the game of golf. An evolutionary adaptation which saved the human race from premature extinction. Of course, having watched the presidential debate last night, premature extinction is sounding better and better. Hmm. one more reason to hate golf.
This goes back to the days of Neanderthals. When an old Neanderthal grandpa (let's call him 'Ugh') got too slow to keep up with the group hunting mastadons and turned into a safety liability (proto-lawyers and insurance salesmen who had recently appeared on the neolithic scene were already displaying disturbingly successful adaptations), the hunting party left him behind in the cave to annoy the crap out of his but-ugly yet extremely capable wife, Mumph.
Ugh: what's this?
Mumph: put that down, you'll break it.
(Ugh picks up something else, fiddles with it for a moment)
Mumph: Leave those tyranosaurus bones where they are; i put them there for a reason.
(Ugh wanders over to another part of the cave)
Mumph: you kicked up a corner of the bear rug; fix it before i trip and kill myself on it.
(Ugh bends over to fix the rug and notices something)
Ugh: hey! there's a giant bug with a bazillion legs hiding under the rug! Cool! (begins poking centipede with stick)
Mumph: That's it! Out with you! Out! (thinking quickly) Here, if you take these two sticks and rub them together for a really long time, something neat will happen. I promise. (snickers to herself)
Ugh: Really? what?
Mumph: uh, it's a surprise. (smirks)
(two hours later)
Ugh: Mumph! Mumph! look! I invented fire! Holy shit, i'm smart!
Mumph: (rolling eyes) Here, you want to be useful? Take these pelts down to the river and bang them against the wet rocks until they're clean.
Ugh: (crestfallen) ok, sure.
(returns)
Ugh: here you go.
Mumph: oh, for fuck's sake. look at them! they're ruined! Don't you know you can't bang a white pelt on a red rock? And this won't even fit the baby now!
Ugh: you just told me to bang them against the rocks. you didn't say which rocks!
Mumph: I've got an idea. why don't you get Blech and a couple sticks and see how many swings it takes you to hit a rock over the cliff? He's got terrible aim, couldn't hit the broad side of a brontosaurus from 10 feet away. That should keep you busy for a while.
Ladies and gentleman: the game of golf. An evolutionary adaptation which saved the human race from premature extinction. Of course, having watched the presidential debate last night, premature extinction is sounding better and better. Hmm. one more reason to hate golf.
Thursday, October 07, 2004
God help the next generation
i know i promised you all that when i got back stateside i would blog all the interesting tidbits of my trip to europe. instead, i'm going to take a page out of herebe's book and ignore that promise for an indefinate period of time while i keep you in suspense and blog about irrelevant and unrelated crap.
first, my ph.d. i just got an email from my future advisor who loved my latest research proposal, and is now just waiting for the final grade of my ma dissertation. thank god i'm not the stressful type, or i'd have bleeding ulcers by now.
second, the haircut. mom says it "looks a bit dykey," but since i don't consider that an insult, and since there isn't a man in a thousand mile radius that i would waste even 15 minutes of my life with, i don't really give a shit.
finally, the job. god help the next generation: i'm a teacher. ok, just a substitute teacher. but when my old honors brit lit teacher found out i needed a temp job, she sent me straight to the high school office to register as a sub. she'll be gone for 3 days this december, and there's no one on the current sub list who can actually teach an english class. mostly all the subs do is hand out busy work and make sure the little angels don't kill each other, or if it's a really good sub, destroy any school property. I, on the other hand, will be teaching. Mary Ellen Miller declared me "one of the best students I've ever had in my 21 years of teaching," and promised that she would make all the other English faculty request me if they get sick. Now that my ego's been stroked the rest of me is wanting a turn.
first, my ph.d. i just got an email from my future advisor who loved my latest research proposal, and is now just waiting for the final grade of my ma dissertation. thank god i'm not the stressful type, or i'd have bleeding ulcers by now.
second, the haircut. mom says it "looks a bit dykey," but since i don't consider that an insult, and since there isn't a man in a thousand mile radius that i would waste even 15 minutes of my life with, i don't really give a shit.
finally, the job. god help the next generation: i'm a teacher. ok, just a substitute teacher. but when my old honors brit lit teacher found out i needed a temp job, she sent me straight to the high school office to register as a sub. she'll be gone for 3 days this december, and there's no one on the current sub list who can actually teach an english class. mostly all the subs do is hand out busy work and make sure the little angels don't kill each other, or if it's a really good sub, destroy any school property. I, on the other hand, will be teaching. Mary Ellen Miller declared me "one of the best students I've ever had in my 21 years of teaching," and promised that she would make all the other English faculty request me if they get sick. Now that my ego's been stroked the rest of me is wanting a turn.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Planes, trains, and automobiles
owing to a large band of german ruffians smoking hash and partying til 5:30 this morning in the hall outside my room of the hostel (located tastefully in the heart of amsterdam's red light district), i got exactly 0 hours sleep last night. add to that a train to the airport, a flight to liverpool, a bus to lime st. station, a train to manchester, and a bus to chorlton, and i'm too knackered to even consider blogging. rest assured that when i have the energy (proably later this week when i'm safely back in the us of a being fed home made pie by my gourmet mom), i will convey all the gorey details of my 3 weeks in europe. neither as poignent (screw the spelling) nor as funny as my best friend's wedding, parts 1-3, it should be an entertaining read nonetheless. stay tuned.
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